Rock Star
by Kafers
Summary: Squall is a rock star, and Seifer loves him.


Just something I wrote in the dead of night, following the exsitment of uploading the latest chapter of Ragnarok. And listening to too much Mae and Something Corporate. Yay *^^*  
  
Rock Star  
  
By Kafers  
  
*************************************  
  
He's a rock star.  
  
A normal, more-than-just-averagely-looking guy who got it all.  
  
Money. Fame. A stage with a billion stars shining on his face.  
  
And how his face glitters under those flaring lights. Sweat glinting like diamonds on his forehead and in his hair, flying all around him as he throws his head back and fly's.  
  
Yes, fly's. He doesn't just sing - his music is like a pearly threat that pulls you off your feet and sends you spinning through the clouds, and you never want to touch the ground again. His songs make me high, light headed, giddy. Like being in love.  
  
And I am in love. I'm in love with a rock star named Squall.  
  
Squall, the storm. Or at least that's what the newspapers call him. I think I've called him that on occasion. When I stare at the black and white print before me, it all feels useless. How can I, drowning in the light he shines on me, write anything that would do him justice? How can I put into words the awe, the golden lighting, the star spangled skin, the voice that raises a storm, the jewels that gleam in his goddamnd gorgeous eyes.  
  
How hopeless am I?  
  
I've interviewed him a few times. I didn't think much of him the first time - I feel in love with him the second time. It went like this:  
  
I sit, the plush conveniences of the cream hotel room barely registering in my thoughts, stance as arrogant as ever. I ask him if I can smoke, he nods.  
  
The swirling grey cloud frames his face, he coughs politely. He's quiet for the most part - reserved, almost cold, face set to neutral. I don't need this - I need dirt, grit, a bit of scandal. That's what makes my money. I push a few buttons; I'm good at this, getting people to rise to my bait - that's why they send me out to do the big shots. He's starting to get uncomfortable, but he doesn't yield. How infuriating.  
  
After a while, it becomes more like a game. I lose interest in writing an article - my aim simply becomes to make him react. Make the ice around his frozen features melt in my heat. I'm having the time of my life.  
  
Squall's the best at everything he does - he says so himself. Who wants to live life being half hearted? He's the best I've ever rubbed up against - at first he seems like glass, until you discover the steel interlaced underneath.  
  
He shakes my hand at the end of the interview, and I leave without having got any of the information I came for. Later, Squall's receptionist tells me that Mr. Lionheart does not shake reporter's hands. I simply smirk and leave the building.  
  
The next day I watch his concert from the audience. He dazzles me with his brilliance, and I see the light being that is Squall Lionheart.  
  
Something grows within me, a swelling within my chest. I realize later that it is the light he bestowed upon me.  
  
I see him again, several months later, a new interview. He remembers me.  
  
He smiles at me.  
  
He. Smiled. At. Me.  
  
I'm falling, falling so fast it's like an endless freedom. His smile bursts from his face like the most beautiful blooming flower, moonlight beaming through his fingers and the tips of his hair. I can barely breathe for several minutes.  
  
Are talk is different this time. The tone has changed somewhat between Glasgow and London. The difference is I love him this time.  
  
Later his receptionist tells me Mr. Lionheart does not smile at reporters. I pull a pink lily out of one of the hotel's floral arrangements and give it to her, asking her to give it to Squall for me.  
  
I watch him that night as he shines his light again. I haven't missed a concert since.  
  
He glows blue and green like the Atlantic when we reach America. They love him too.  
  
Oh, yes, I did say we. You see, when I saw him for a third time, he kissed me. Turns out he loves me too.  
  
He told me that I shine brighter than anyone he's ever met before. He says we clash perfectly. He says I love you and will you run away with me?  
  
I quit my job that day. We ran down the stones together at Briton beach, tearing the Daily Telegraph into a million pieces so they showered over the us and the sea like snow.  
  
I made love to him under the pier that night. We touched and stroked each other for the very first time as fireworks exploded all the stars. He tasted like sea salt and sugar as I kissed every inch of his diamond studded skin.  
  
His manager found us together the next morning, catching a chill as we slept naked on the shingles.  
  
I remember the look on his face (I stopped myself from laughing) as he said that Squall was too young for this sort of thing, and that I would ruin his career if this went on any longer. And thank goodness the press didn't get here before he did.  
  
Squall and I just looked at each other and laughed. I said to him;  
  
"I am the press".  
  
He quit that day, and I got a new job. He also sold our story to the papers, but all Squall said was that he'd always thought he was a fuck- faced bastard anyways.  
  
Obviously, the press asked us for clarification. I said:  
  
"Yes, Squall and I are together. But I don't think any of the lady's should get upset, since Squall is actually strait, he just happened to fall in love with me."  
  
This seemed to make some people happy, and others not. That's life.  
  
Like I said, we went to America. And they did love him - nobody can resist Squall's light, because it speaks to something in all of us.  
  
It speaks to me of summer nights spent on Briton pleasure beach, of sugar and salt on his glowing skin, of florescent lights sparkling off the rolling ocean.  
  
In one of his songs, he whispers my name just so you can barely hear it - Seifer, Seifer, Seifer - and it sends a sparkling thrill through my body. He does it on purpose - he knows I simply have to take him then and there when he does. His staff have found that he always disappears just before the encore, and then seems abnormally cheerful when he walks back on stage again, five minutes later. I just sit to the side, smoking my fag, smirking like a cat that's got the cream.  
  
Those are the times when he truly sings strait from his heart.  
  
He's a rock star.  
  
He's my shining star.  
  
*************************************  
  
Glitter glitter glitter... *.* 


End file.
